Unparalleled
by LittleMissAfflicted
Summary: In which Gilbert learns one of life's harshest lessons: There are some things too unique to replace, no matter how hard you try. Gil/Oz. Yaoi.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone except Almare, Evan, and Roselle, all of whom were... well, interesting, yes? lol

**Warning:** Yaoi, and some het!sex too. If this seems strange, I ask that you read the entire story before jumping to conclusions XD

**AN:** If you manage to read this all the way through, you're awesome! Just be patient... Oz is in there...

* * *

><p><em>I miss you. <em>

It began as an inkling that sprouted slowly, a fragile notion that was fed by reality untfil it began to strengthen. Every thought that clung to it led to others, tangling inmpossibly, until it was certain, mature, a full web of ivy twisting and wrapping around the mind. And though vegetation knows a cycle of death and resurrection, it never faded, only grew stronger, rooted more deeply, until mind was joined by heart and then body as well.

Everyday it strangled him, and everyday, Gil allowed it to. He deserved it. He should have fought harder. He should have protected his master as he was supposed to. As he wanted to, more than anything else.

But he hadn't.

Gil hadn't done anything more than get in the way and fail miserably, and so he merited the tightening in his chest and the sting of tears; the suffocation of his own self-loathing. He was worthy of the hurt that he felt cut him open endlessly, worse than the wound blazing across his chest, from losing that _one_.

One. Impossibly, painfully, beautifully singular.

Gil began to learn this very slowly.

* * *

><p>His first lesson had arrived to him at the age of fifteen, in the form of a pretty young girl.<p>

She was just his age, perched on the very edge of sweet and childish youth, but already beginning to curve from the touch of adulthood. Her features demanded admiration- wasp-waist, promising bosom, ginger curls that bounced merrily with the slightest movement, and pale skin marred only by the softest flush of pink.

And green eyes.

The icy touch of a coin, his change, being placed into his palm startled the young Nightray from his ogling. "T-Thank you," he murmured to the stall-keep in his nervously polite tone, the bag of groceries in his hands feeling weightless as he turned to search for them again, those eyes…

"Hello."

The figure draped in a lavish dress of pale gold silk startled Gil into full awareness as he managed to rectify his jostled purchases with a slight gasp.

"Y-Yes?"

"You were staring at me," the girl spoke again. She was smiling softly, employing all of the charm that any proper young lady possessed. It would have ruined anyone's composure, but Gilbert was much more entranced by the verdant rings of her irises. So green… but were they _that_ green? He couldn't quite tell.

"Forgive me, I merely-"

"Oh, it's quite alright," the girl interrupted with a chaste laugh. "I don't mind being looked upon by someone so handsome."

Her words made Gil's face flush terribly for a multitude of reasons. There was embarrassment, which seemed to plague him constantly. Then he factored in her forwardness along with the unusual satisfaction that fluttered in his stomach from her compliment, and heated rosy cheeks quickly bled into cerise.

She laughed at the reaction but Gilbert could barely find the time to resent himself. He was too busy admiring the amusement that gleamed in her pretty green eyes.

"My name is Almare." she offered then, her gaze wandering. Green, so vivid, ghosting over Gil with an intention that he did not understand. "May I know yours?"

"Gilbert. Nightray," he replied brokenly. Almare took another step forward, igniting another fit of nervousness, but Gil also realized that it brought her eyes closer, and it was suddenly alright. Closer, but the shadows cast by her fringe muted the color, and he still wasn't sure just how they measured up to _his_…

"Would you keep me company for just a little while, Gilbert? Or perhaps… you are busy?" She was referring to his bag of food, Gil thought, and though he did indeed wish to take it home, he had to get a closer glimpse, just a touch closer, and so he answered, "I.. wouldn't mind."

"Lovely! Perhaps we could sit in the park? The weather is just right for it."

It was- sunny with a healthy breeze- and so Gil found no reason to refute the suggestion.

They wound up surrounded by more green, engulfed by the shade of trees and shrubbery. Almare's true interest was expertly camouflaged with idle chatter, a love for the peace and quiet of the isolated spot that they were sitting in, and the coy wave of her lashes.

"Say, Gilbert. Are you with anyone?"

"With?"

"Yes. You… do know what I mean, of course?"

But Gilbert, more innocent and shy than even the young maiden before him, did not. He was not 'with' anyone, besides her. Certainly not with the person that he wished to be, and so shook is head, "No."

Her smirk confused him then. "I don't think I've ever met a boy like you. You're awfully cute, Gilbert."

She was close. Much too close, close enough that the green was his to exploit, but-

"Mm," Almare sighed against him softly, his first kiss gone, the victim of a more knowing set of lips. That one kiss was forever stolen, and though the heat of it sent a shudder over his skin, Gilbert also groaned from the sharp pang of disappointment.

Almare's eyes were nothing like his at all. More so the shade of a peridot, light, with a subtle trail of orange blazing around the pupil.

They broke apart and she smiled, assessing him, her face glowing. The lack of words seemed to speak on his behalf as she leaned in once more. Again their lips met but Gil never protested, only waited and wallowed. Just one, he thought. He had only ever seen one pair of green eyes so rich, and they were his, and only his.

Only one set of eyes that brilliant emerald.

* * *

><p>Mistakes are mysteriously repetitive, and Gilbert's mounting loneliness made it simpler to come by them. At the age of seventeen he came across his second encounter, inspired by the same yearning as the last.<p>

This time it was a male, a young man who was a few years older than he, and a full head taller. His name was Evan. He worked as the apprentice to the gunsmith who had provided Gilbert and Vincent with many of the guns that they had made use of as they learned the dangerous art of wielding them.

How Vincent could possibly manage to lose a gun was beyond Gilbert's understanding, but his younger brother had put on quite a show, begging him with wide mismatched eyes to pick up a new one for him. The elder Nightray complied, his motivation greatly spurred by the prominent headache that Vincent had left him with in the aftermath.

The scent of metal, solvents, and gun oil permeated the air as Gilbert entered the shop with an almost hesitant gait.

"Owner's busy, but what can I do you for?" Evan called out from behind the counter, never looking up as he continued his task of polishing a small handgun.

Gil had only seen Evan a handful of times since he, unlike his younger sibling, took excellent care of his weapons. He looked older than he remembered, though in a manner that suggested maturity rather than a visible passage of time. His hazel eyes were deeply focused on his task, work-worn hands stroking the barrel of the gun with a cadence that was almost hypnotic, but neither observation held Gil's notice for very long.

What did was the unruly blond of the man's carelessly mussed hair that shone curiously in the dim lighting of the shop.

"I'm here to pick up a gun. It should be beneath the name Vincent Nightray."

"The Nightrays again, hm?" Evan laughed deeply. Over the last year Gil's voice had finally settled on a pitch, fine and smooth, but not nearly as manly as he had secretly hoped it would be. He shook off the twinge of envy and walked up to the counter. The gun that Evan was polishing was well-crafted, shining with deadly promise as its maintenance continued.

"I'm afraid that my brother's ability to use one is far beyond his ability to keep track of one."

"Hm?" Evan paused to look up at him, and the dark haired youth nearly jumped as he exclaimed, "Gilbert Nightray! I haven't seen you for years! You grew up quick, kid!"

No amount of growth seemed capable of ridding Gil of his tendency to flush shyly, which he immediately did.

"S-So did you. How is the apprenticeship?"

"Going very well, thanks. I can't say I'm fond of polishing each and every one of these, but it sure beats dealing with some of the more annoying customers I've come to know," the man chuckled. Gilbert noted that he must have been up to this for a while; his button-up shirt appeared to have been demoted from white to dull gray, smeared with the inky black of his cleaning supplies.

"I'll be counting my brother as one of them," he muttered quietly.

Evan quirked a brow. "Vincent? He's certainly racked up a history of purchases, but I've never actually met him, come to think of it."

Gil nodded, "Yeah. Vincent hasn't ever been here for himself."

"Your brother a spoiled brat, is he?" the apprentice suggested jokingly.

It made Gil smile reluctantly, "I suppose that in some ways he is."

"You know," Evan grinned, "you're not nearly as quiet as you used to be, kid. I remember wondering if you were a mute when I first met you! Well then, let's get that gun. I have to fetch it from the back room, where the old man keeps all of the other expensive orders."

Assuming that the 'old man' was his way of addressing the shop's owner, Gil asked, "Are there a lot of impressive ones that you take care of?"

"Oh yeah. Some of them are like works of art. You wouldn't believe the engraving that the old man is capable of. You wanna see?"

"Can I?" Gilbert's interest made his golden eyes widen in a childish way that made the gunsmith-to-be laugh cheerily.

"Yeah, sure. I doubt the old man would tell a Nightray off, anyway. Come around the counter and follow me."

Evan led Gilbert through a hall and around a corner to the left. All the while he stared at the back of his head, at wisps of bright gold that made nostalgia prick his heart.

"Take a look," Evan spoke as he led them into a small room that housed a wall of expertly crafted weapons. Gil moved forward to get a better look, the door of the room falling shut as he released it, and he marveled at the different insignias and family crests that were emblazoned onto the handles of the guns. Some designs even went as far as to wound about the entire barrel, and a few of them sported differently styled triggers that Gil had never seen before.

"Impressive."

"Isn't it? That's why I work so damn hard, you know. I want to inherit the old man's title rightfully, and make them like this someday. Maybe even better."

"That's an admirable goal."

"Ha. Thanks, Gilbert. Now let's see… ah," he plucked a gun off of the wall, "Here we go."

It was a steely color, very well made, the symbol of the Nightray dukedom on either side of the handle.

"The color is nice," Gil thought aloud.

"Yeah, and that's why it cost so much. The metal has more silver in it, so its nicer to look at then your average one."

"I'll make sure this one is taken better care of. I happen to like it, myself."

"Hey now, I don't mind. That brother of yours brings in a nice bit of business, from what our records say," the blond smiled. "Oh, hold it. It's got a little stain on the barrel. That's my fault. If the old man saw this, he'd wring my neck!"

"It's fine," Gil insisted. "Either one of us can polish it well enough, I guess. And I like cleaning them. It's… kind of relaxing."

Admitting the unnecessary made the Nightray flush again, until he saw Evan nod in agreement.

"I think so too! It's almost like when, well… you know," he winked.

Gilbert didn't know. He had no idea what Evan was insinuating at all. He was only aware of a familiar feeling making his chest tighten in the way it had when he had been kissed by that girl in the park two years ago. That, and the blond. He couldn't get that sunny color out of his head, because it looked like _his_…

"You look lost, kid," Evan chuckled, his voice taking on a rough quality that was both intriguing and unfamiliar. "Haven't you ever… you know… when you're lonely? Although I'm sure a looker like you gets more than his fair share, hm?"

Gilbert merely stared, brows furrowing as he debated how to convey his lack of understanding, and the older man caught on quickly.

"You can't tell me that you've never touched yourself…"

At this Gil could only sputter. His cheeks became bright with a flush as he cast his eyes down in what felt like shame. Why was he being asked this, anyway?

"You know… guns aren't the only thing that I know how to polish, Nightray," came the invitation, the apprentice stepping close and herding him against a small desk, the only piece of furniture in the little room. "I could teach you how to do it just right, if you'd like."

Gil opened his mouth to protest, but 'no' was a word that he was awful at uttering, and it never left his throat. Instead he felt the warmth of another male's lips, and his vision flit from hazel to blessed blond to darkness as he shut his eyes and let fear force his surrender.

This time a tongue traced the seam of his lips very deliberately, and Gil wanted him to stop, truly, he did, but opening his mouth was interpreted wrongly as the wet muscle made its way inside. He had never felt such a thing, only read about it in novels that he would never admit to enjoying, but it was pleasant nevertheless. He noticed the blond that teased at his peripheral vision and shut his eyes so that fantasy could take over. He had always wanted to touch it, that blond, _his_ blond, certain that it would feel like handfuls of silk in his hands.

"Nnn," mortification crept into Gil's thoughts as he let go of the sound, something high and unrestrained that only grew in pitch as the slickness of the kiss brought a tingling swell to his lips. It could have been this, his mind cried out. In those scenes that he guiltily created he would be led just so, would be taught how to touch by his hand, because he'd waited, for so long he'd waited for him, but now he was gone-

Gone.

But the feelings that Gil had were not, his imagination fueled by this onslaught of pleasure, by blond- brushing his neck, teasing against his skin so gently that it pained him like only one thing ever had.

"You're almost too pretty to be a boy, Gilbert," Evan said with wonder as he pressed a knee to the apex of his customer's thighs and forced a helpless keen out of his throat.

No. That was wrong. The wrong voice, but ah, the blond was still there-

"_You're so cute, Gil," he'd coo into his ear. _

Maybe _then_ he would continue to confuse him like this, replacing one source of friction with another. Fingers- a hand- Gil registered breathlessly, was grasping a place he had never touched for himself, because although desire had plagued him before he had never dared to fulfill it. Because everything about him, body included, was _his_.

"You know how it goes now, right?" the older male rasped. "Grasp it firmly, and keep a tight hold, and then you go back and forth… just like you do to a gun, hm?"

But a gun was the furthest thing from Gil's hazy thoughts as the head of his need was traced by work-calloused hands that made him moan.

All wrong. They would be soft hands, delicate, unmarred by the labor meant only for common folk…

"Try it," he heard. A gasp left the young Nightray as one of his own hands was compelled to wrap around a twin organ. Twin only in the most basic of ways, he found. Evan was a bit more mature than he in that aspect, too, thicker and longer, the tip a slightly different shape that pulsed a shade of red darker than his own.

He did not know whether this was right or wrong. Gilbert had never let his fantasies go very far, nor had he ever stopped to ponder what he might find in such a forbidden region, so he let the thought escape him and reciprocated the action.

"That's good… ah, like that," the man before him groaned, giving him praise. Gil had loved to be praised, still hungered for the words of satisfaction that made him feel wonderfully needed, and his hand began to mirror that. Every stroke aimed for more of it, initial clumsiness overpowered by the urge to please.

He'd do it perfectly, squeeze until- "Unngh, kid, that feels amazing…"

No. Until-

"_Gilbert… Gil, that's __**perfect**__." _

-until _he_ said it was so, and the new thrill of it made Gil succumb, crying out as his pleasure bled, thick and heady from his lack of exploitation, and the light sheen of blond spun against his eyes.

Gilbert felt like the child that he used to be, that he still was deep inside, willing back the sudden need to sob as he saw the slightly clearer fluid that trailed over his own fingers.

His desperation was truly beginning to feast on him from the inside out…

Evan's hair was nothing like his, Gil realized as he blinked out of his reverie. It was shades deeper, dirty blond, some strands shining a color close to copper in the light. Just one, he thought. He had only ever seen one head of hair so unforgettably bright, and it was his, and only his.

Only one head of locks that shone like the sun had been spun into thread.

* * *

><p>It was later still at the age of twenty one that Gilbert found delusion, not for the third or fourth time, but the fifth. The last two incidents had quickly followed the first two, until he had learned that appearance was nothing but a shallow illusion that clouded his torn heart, leaving him unsatisfied and more miserable than ever before. But then he was baited by what lay within, an eerily similar demeanor, and again he was tempted by that which he could not find, but longed for.<p>

That day had been his birthday. Break would not budge on the matter, insisting that any real man of his age should celebrate with a drink. It would be Gil's first, for though he understood the relief that he garnered from the long drag of a cigarette, the attraction of alcohol had managed to escape him.

So here he was as a result, holed up in some room of the estate at the latest hours of the night as Break presented him with a bottle of amber liquid.

"Well then, happy birthday! I got this one juuust for you, Raven," Break sang almost evilly.

"I made sure to get something smooth for you," he continued as he proceeded to uncork the liquor and pour some into a waiting glass.

"Because the Raven can't handle the good stuff yet!" Emily croaked with mirth.

"Now, now, Emily! That isn't nice at alllll, you silly girl!" The pale haired man tapped the creature's head lightly. "There now," Gil accepted the glass reluctantly and watched as the man made for the door. "Sometimes it's better to drink your sorrow down, rather than to search for false happiness, Raven. I hope you learn that soon," he warned as he slipped out of the room without further ado.

Gilbert's disgust with Break made the words fade quickly, and he looked at the liquid in his cup with a sigh. It smelled strange, pungent somehow, but he supposed it couldn't hurt to try it.

The first swig made him choke unexpectedly as it seared along his throat most unexpectedly and settled in his stomach as though he'd eaten hot coal. Wondering if it was a trick, Gil frowned, but tried another sip, determined not to face ridicule over something as simple as a drink.

It burned much less now. The taste was many times more discernable, the sweetness of fermented fruit and bitterness of alcohol melding harmoniously. Whatever this stuff was, it wasn't too bad after all.

Sadly, it was only one glass later that Gilbert came face to face with the warped world of intoxication, the heat that pooled in his belly now rushing through his veins. Everything seemed laughable to him somehow, and he wanted nothing more than for the madness to end-

"Are you alright, Master Nightray?"

Gil looked up to a young woman, one of the many hands employed by the dukedom, and nodded. She was slender, with short strawberry-blonde hair that just reached her chin, and eyes like a clear midday sky.

"W-Who are you…?"

"I'm Roselle, sir. I was instructed to clean this wing of the estate tonight. Forgive me if I am intruding."

She didn't seem sorry, Gil thought through his incoherence. Not in the least, in fact. He had seen a smile like hers many times before. It seemed proper and polite but housed mirth and unbound will, and hers was very much like it. Like _his_.

"It's fine, Ro… Ro-"

"Roselle," she repeated, full of a daring that he remembered all too well, that if spoken to anyone else would have earned her sound punishment.

"Today is your birthday, isn't that so?" she asked as she looked at him. Her lashes were quite long, Gil noted. "Looks like someone wanted to treat you. _Frutta Liscia _is expensive."

"That so?"

Roselle walked, or perhaps sauntered over to him, with a jubilant smile. "Yes, it is! They use some rarer fruits to make it, and then age it for quite a long time. I've heard that it's one of the finest wines in existence."

"Oooh," she murmured as she examined the bottle, another invasive action that would have ended in her termination, were it not Gil, further softened by liquor, whom she was dealing with.

He sat by and allowed her to do as he pleased, faintly wondering if this numb mindlessness was the sort of feeling that the Abyss itself could invoke in someone. And then that thought spiraled into others, of the person that that infernal place had stolen from him, and the old vines that caged his mind began to coil.

"Master Nightray, may I have some? I'm twenty, and that's close enough isn't it? I've always wanted to try it… my papa used to work in a vineyard, you see. It was his dream to one day make a bottle of this himself, but he never saw that dream through. He never even got to taste it…"

Suddenly her pain was swallowed by a grin so familiar that it stung more than the liquor. A method of dealing with grief that was identical to _his_.

"So what do you think? Can I, please?"

"Yeah…" he said softly, chuckling at the way her eyes went wide with still-guarded joy as she took his empty glass and fixed herself a new one.

She sipped it slowly, and Gil had to question if it was his own blurred state of mind that was allowing him to see memories reflected in her eyes as she did so. He could nearly hear her laughter, see her running down a road lined with vines and trees bearing fresh fruit, straight into the arms of a man with a loving smile and warm eyes just as blue as her own.

It faded like the end of a fairy tale, but left her behind. There she stood, pining for a father whom she had loved, the similarities in their attitude so overbearing that Gil realized that he had learned nothing at all, for he was fascinated by her for the same reason that he had been by all the others, and the alcohol made it very easy to forget how wrong that had been.

Roselle finished the cup and giggled, never asking for the next, or even the one that followed it, until the shield of joy that she wore shattered, and she sat at his feet without a word. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Master N-Nightray," she sobbed quietly, tugging at the hem of his shirt as if she were a child. She wasn't, but her emotions were as fragile as, and so were his, flooded by thoughts of him, always him, and Gilbert decided that although he would always be broken, perhaps there was some sort of comfort that he could give to her.

"You made his dream come true," he leaned down to her and murmured lazily, and her crying ceased. The words sunk into her slowly and she smiled again, that same smile that made his heart feel full to bursting, and she sighed, "Thank you," before reaching up to kiss him.

Kisses had become so meaningless to Gil, something that accompanied the chase of fleeting memories, all of which were him, and then not him at all. Maybe it was the liquor making him reckless, but he imagined that this was the pain that he hadn't been able to quell those eight years ago, finally put to rest.

What followed was a blur. Clothes scattered to the ground, the fabric of noble and servant made equal as they touched the ground with mutual unimportance. Gilbert was now certain, completely, that it was the male form that he was partial to, but only because _he_ was male. Only because it was him.

It didn't matter to him now as he fondled the girl's breasts gently, pressing her body to the angle of a sofa, enamored with the similarities that he'd found within her, so much so that her gender was an obstacle that he easily surpassed. Roselle whimpered as he flicked the hardening peaks of them gently, and he groaned as he ground into her with carnal instinct as his only guide.

"G-Gil," she urged hotly.

She'd shortened his name. She was the first of his trysts to do so, and only one person before her had ever said it more lovingly. Only one other, and it was still _him_.

"Again," he commanded boldly as he trailed his fingers over her skin, rubbing a spot that he was only faintly acquainted with, but still skilled at taking advantage of.

Roselle obeyed her master, crying the shortened version of his name- a nickname better than any appellation, more potent than the spell of any wine, and more absolute to him than reality itself.

She was no innocent woman. Her body took his fingers into its depths with hunger rather than qualm, delighting in the way that they twisted and plunged with maddening purpose. Even now, at his most dominant, Gil was unbearably tender, probably because the wounds that he carried remained in exactly the same state.

"Please," she begged of him, but her eyes were not pleading. Cold, clear blue implied that he had no other option but to comply as she rubbed against his desire. Desire that would never belong to her, only to _him_, but that Gil would allow her to have this one time.

He was able to recall that he had never gotten quite so far with his delusional intimacies. The heir of the Nightray dukedom had never allowed anyone to enter him, nor had he ever felt it necessary to enter anyone else. He conceded now only because it was what he wished he could have done then- give comfort in any way that he could. There were no limitations now, he told himself. There was no master and servant, only two bodies capable of giving comfort in any way that they sought it.

Gilbert knew the way in which Roselle was currently seeking it all too well, taking mercy on her writhing form and pressing against her folds. Still, somewhere in his drunken mind it was _his_ heat; him, always, always, always him.

Gil gave his virginity to a ghost of what he was sure could never be, thrusting into the scorching grip of a woman's body with strokes that were not meant for her. They were slow and sorrowful, an unbearably sweet fucking that made their pleasure erupt as a pair of sobs that echoed into the night, physical euphoria fading away, just like the end of a fairy tale.

When he awoke in the morning, only cruel reality was left, and Gilbert ground his teeth and forgot to care that his eyes were already lined with tears.

Roselle's pain was nothing like his, because he would have never, ever cried. Just one, he thought. He had only seen one grief so deeply hidden, and it was his, and only his.

One heart wrapped in thorns that he had never been able to heal.

* * *

><p>Finally, after a decade, Gilbert's nightmare came to its end. At the age of twenty four what he sought had returned, bearing a body that had not aged, and a love that had not wavered. It was euphoria that he never wanted to forget, a feeling so precious that he savored it with all of his being, plunging it into his heart like a dagger that he never intended to remove.<p>

"So… five."

_He_ was here.

_He_ was here before him, like a living dream, the total that he uttered like a poison spilling into an open wound.

"Yes," Gil nodded, wracked with guilt that warred with utter joy.

"I'm not mad at you, Gil," he said with a gleam in his eyes.

Only one set of eyes a brilliant emerald, unlike anyone else's.

"I wish that you were," Gil confessed pathetically. "I deserve for you to be. You ought to hate me. I'd feel better if you hated me… Master."

"That isn't my name, Gil," he smiled beatifically, as though their current situation was perfectly normal. They were locked away in Gilbert's bedroom, shirts strewn on the floor, the frowns of their folds casting shadows along the hardwood floor. "And I'm not gonna hate you, either, so you might as well give up on that."

"But you should, mast-," Gilbert flinched at his mistake. "…Oz."

"That's better," the blond boy cooed as he straddled his cherished friend, pressing a kiss to the quiver of his Adam's apple.

"That's my Gil, still as lame as ever," Oz Vessalius sighed into the man's chest, the loveliest insult that Gilbert had ever heard. "I guess I'm a little jealous," the boy admitted, "but I forgive you. I understand why you did it, you know. Sorry… I left you for so long. I was gone for so long that I drove Gil crazy. Silly fool."

"But I-!" the dark haired man could only groan as Oz nipped his neck. Five times made no difference now. He was being reduced to a creature of need by the only one who could manage to do so. The one he'd waited so long to see. The one he loved most, his mind screamed-

Him, only him-

"_Oz._"

Gilbert slipped his hand along the boy's pale neck, urging him to sit up so that he could burrow his lips against the hollows at either side. He ran his tongue over the right and traveled to the left, suckling like a famished newborn, a man starved only for the flesh of this one body.

Oz whined, leaning back to separate them and then forward to seal their mouths together in a kiss that Gil knew should have been his very first. He grasped locks of blond with savage lenience, tightly enough to make him understand without causing any pain. They were just as he had imagined- softness enveloped his fingers as a scent without equivalent filled his head.

Only one head of locks that shone like the sun had been spun into thread, unlike anyone else's.

Oz giggled at his servant's expression. Gil's eyes were screwed shut, dark lashes pressed together as his entire face grew a shade of pink that remained the same, even now.

"Gil," he hummed, "you're still really cute." He kissed him again, licking at his mouth with uncertainty. A blush mirrored Gil's own as Oz only stared at the open mouth and shy tongue that was offered without a word. After a moment of stillness Gilbert managed to smile. He whispered, "Like this," and was not disappointed as Oz mimicked him and let their parted lips join together.

Oz was decadent in a manner much more composed than he had been, Gil noted with a twinge of envy, as the boy's reactions were limited to shivers and barely audible moans. He wanted more. This heat had to be proven true, so he took Oz's squirming tongue between his teeth as carefully as he could and then laved his own against it roughly, teasing it with sweeps that never lingered for very long.

Finally Oz gave in and groaned a long note of protest that made Gil sigh into his mouth. The blond found it adorable, chuckling into their kiss and ending it with a final touch of lips slick from their enthusiasm.

Emerald irises peered at the long line of marred skin on Gilbert's chest, and Oz declared, "You should hate me too, Gil. Look what I did to you…" Fingers much smaller than his own danced along the narrow mark of a wound that the heir of Nightray had never once blamed him for. Not ever.

"It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault."

"We don't really know that, yet."

"I don't care. I can't hate you either."

"So then what _can_ you?" Oz placed each of his hands on either side of his hips, on the hem of his pants, and Gil's heart went wild at the implication.

"I don't get it."

"If you can't hate me, Gil, then what can you? Or better yet, what _do_ you?"

It was a ridiculously phrased question, and so Oz decided to answer it himself. He traced around the servant's left breast, the false pattern of a heart that everyone knew, right over the frantic pulse of the real thing.

"You love me," Oz smiled. Somehow it was sad, hiding moments of solitude that had been warped into a decade.

One heart wrapped in thorns that he had never been able to heal.

Until now.

"Tell you what. I'll forgive you forever if _you_ say it, Gil. Who do you love?"

The answer was immediate, strong words carried by a voice weak with confession, "Only you."

It was enough for the boy, who looked characteristically pleased as he rocked his hips to convey his outlived patience with his trousers. Gil did away with them easily, albeit with a stronger glow lighting his cheeks than he'd ever felt before. He ignored the undergarments in favor of his own pants, moaning when Oz's hand slid over the rise of his length and he squeezed, commanding, "Ah-ah, Gil. I'm still dressed. Besides, I'm going to take these off for you."

Dark hair was pressing to Gil's forehead as the temperature climbed, becoming something palpable that draped all along their sweat-dampened skin as he slid Oz's last article of cloth away.

There were a million reasons why he should not be doing this, Gil thought. Then Oz kissed him and did away with the button of his trousers, and he found a million more reasons not to care.

"Nngh," he couldn't help his soft cries as he was teased. He hadn't worn undergarments himself that day, all of them lost with his unfinished laundry, and Oz hadn't hesitated to take a hold of what he found. There was more curiosity in the youth's expression than anything else as he touched gently, marveling at the twitching want encased by smooth, feverish skin.

Oz was sporting a matured erection of his own, peach darkening to desperate rose at the very tip, and Gil marveled at how something so explicit could manage to be so… cute.

"Hey!" Gilbert exercised his own strength then, flipping them over and assailing his body with kisses and love bites. Oz pouted, frustrated with the loss of control, until Gilbert's wavy locks crept lower, and lower still, his tongue pressing against the head of his want as he nearly screamed.

"_Gil_!"

Gil swallowed him with urgency, a thorough caress of his mouth that didn't last long. Only minutes into the act had Oz begun to pant and buck his hips with unrestrained lust, egged on by a suction and wetness that he could have never imagined. It was even more startling when Gil's mouth began working against a spot that he hadn't quite expected, pink and tense and entirely untouched, Oz's confusion outdone by perverse excitement.

"Mmmm… Gil, I… that's _good_," the blond whispered in disbelief. It was nothing that Gil had practiced before, so he was pleased to hear the praise that was saturated with blossoming passion.

"Ah! Are you gonna-?"

"If I don't, I might hurt you. I don't want to hurt you." Gil pressed a finger to the flexing ring of muscle, charting his next move with theory alone.

"Okay," Oz breathed. He braced himself, allowing his legs to be parted and bent at the knees for the sake of accessibility, as well as a thrilling view.

It escalated at a rate that neither anticipated, from pained groans to soft mewls, one finger to two and then three, tentative fear to unabashed thrusts against his hand.

"Amazing… this is so-! _Nnn_! Gil, Gil, _Gil_, do that _again_!" He knew what Oz meant, a spot within him that triggered the boy's lapse of sanity, but struggled to find it. The blond swayed his lithe hips in circles that sought to aid the fingers inside of him.

He began to purr frenzied instructions with an amount of confidence that was nearly baffling. "Yes, Gil, like that, but-_ah_! No, press deeper and touch to your left… oh! That's so _close_, Gil, try- oooh, _there_!"

Every movement brought pressure against the spot, each moan climbing in pitch until Oz was tossing his head, viscous liquid pooling on his stomach as his orgasm became a more eminent threat.

"Gil," he muttered weakly, not at all surprised when the older male rubbed against his well-prepared entrance with a moan and a molten look in his honey eyes.

"Gil," he chuckled roughly, voice salaciously deepened.

"You don't have to wait anymore."

No… he didn't. Not anymore, or ever again.

Gilbert obeyed with a thrill in his heart that he thought had died long ago, lost like he'd never been before as he felt an unbearable squeeze in his chest and groin- the pull of this boy who he'd loved for as long as he could remember, this one person who had almost undone him simply by leaving his side.

"Hmm," Oz hummed, brows furrowed as he winced. He was being accepting as ever, swallowing sounds of discomfort so as not to worry the source of it. Gilbert looked like he was in a trance, panting, leaning over to kiss his cheeks and pressing himself in more deeply in the process.

"Give me… a minute," Oz asked in defeat. He ignored the tiny smile that played across his elder's lips. For a while they remained joined but unmoving, becoming increasingly aware of the pleasure that each was providing the other.

Gil stared at Oz quietly, eyes widening when he heard a faint, "Go on," and he began to do just that.

It was too much at once for the both of them. It had to be love, Gil thought with a loud moan as he flexed his hips unhurriedly. It had to be love making it all feel so surreal that he wanted to scream. Oz was wailing enough for the both of them, crying out with every move and gripping his back with both hands, singing a language of gibberish tacked to lascivious variations of his name.

"Yes, yes… _Gilbert_," the sound of his name, like _that_, made control impossible for Gil to keep hold of, his rhythm becoming something wickedly, lovingly sinful. He aimed to sink in as deeply as he could, shifted in the direction that he'd been shown, and then lost himself in a gait that quickened of its own accord and pressed the place Oz loved almost mercilessly.

Everything came together beautifully, blond and emerald and everything that he'd hunted- _everything that was Oz-_ gripping his broken thoughts as they reached a point that they could no longer bear, a high cry harmonizing with the lower one that followed. The sound of it made them tremble, a release so unfathomably marvelous that it seared every perception with pleasure, all senses merging together, and both bodies aching as one.

It was later, they decided, when each sense came back, one after the other. First sight- white splashing across flesh and sheets. Touch- the heat of skin and cool touch of sweat as they came untangled. Taste- a lingering kissed that Oz smirked against Gil's lips. Sound- just the two of them and their mismatched, labored breaths. Smell- the sweltering musk of lovemaking, fresh and heady.

"So…" Oz asked as he clung to Gilbert's chest, his eyelids heavy.

"Hm?"

"What are you gonna make for dinner later, Gil?"

Gilbert laughed weakly. He would worry about that later. Such a triviality meant nothing to him at the moment, not now that he had that _one_ at his side.

Only Oz: uniquely, strangely, wondrously-

_Unparalleled._

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>_Hope you stuck around long enough to like it! Thanks for any reviews XD


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